


A Christmas Miracle

by Shared_Shield



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Christmas, Gaby keeps it together, Gunshot Wounds, Hospital, Hurt Napoleon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pneumonia, Waverly Is A Good Boss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 17:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shared_Shield/pseuds/Shared_Shield
Summary: It was supposed to be an easy mission, but as always when somebody uttered the words ‘easy’, ‘fast’ or ‘in and out, no mess and we’ll both forget about it in the morning’, things were doomed to go awry.It's Christmas and they have to stay at the hospital.





	A Christmas Miracle

It was supposed to be an easy mission, but as always when somebody uttered the words ‘easy’, ‘fast’ or ‘in and out, no mess and we’ll both forget about it in the morning’, things were doomed to go awry. 

Illya silently cursed himself for being so naïve while running across the shipping yard. It was the middle of December, London wasn’t yet caught in winter’s icy grip, but it was cold enough that puddles began to freeze over and breaths produced white clouds in front of one’s face.

He slipped behind one of the metal shipping containers and saw Solo doing the same across him. The splashing of the waves on the Thames against the port’s walls was drowned out by the bullets ricocheting off the containers.

“I thought this was going to be an easy mission!”, Illya called.

“So thought I!”, the American worked on his boot and pulled out a revolver, initially not expecting to need it. They had been tasked with the retrieval of a list of biochemical warfare’s buyers. Easy, really, if they hadn’t been surprised by security’s nightshift coming in early.

Illya also readied his gun and spied carefully around the container. Their chasers weren’t particularly fast, they had outrun them easily enough, but they seemed to be good with their guns. The shipping yard was poorly lit, and this advantage had now turned out to be quite unfortunate. Illya was not able to see any of them, they too had taken cover and waited for their prey to come out of hiding.

“Illya!”, Napoleon hissed, “The containers should cover us enough to get to the fence. We climb over it, they won’t follow us there, I mean, they can’t run through the city shooting.”

Solo grinned, obviously sure of his victory. Illya looked around and inspected their escape route. It seemed save enough, the containers provided cover and until the fence they would be plunged in darkness and a lot harder to hit. Solo only had to make the distance between their two hiding spots.

“You come over, I’ll cover you!”

Illya leaned forward a little bit more and was immediately met with gun fire. They had a spotlight at their backs, every move they made was visible to their enemies. But now, having risked some movement, Illya knew the direction the shots were coming from.

“I fire first, you wait few seconds and then come over”, Solo noticed Illya’s English slipping, betraying how tense the Russian really was. It wasn’t a safe maneuver, god knows, but it was their only chance, if they didn’t want Waverly to bail them out of jail, or worse, free them out of private captive. Solo did plan to spend Christmas at his own apartment after all.

Illya took a deep breath to steady his hand and nodded to Solo. Then he started to fire. 

It seemed to work, the opposing gunshots were only directed at Illya and Solo waited dutifully a few seconds before crossing the gap between the containers.  
There must have been a noise, though, something that drew Solo’s eyes from his destination and to the open field, making him change his posture and giving the security staff a bigger area to hit the agent.

Later, Illya would know that two bullets made their way into Solo’s body, one underneath his left collarbone, the other one sunk into the flesh underneath his ribs. 

At the harbor, Illya only saw Napoleon jerk backwards out of the corner of his eyes. The American stumbled and fell into the Thames with a splash.

His colleague immediately took cover again, pressed his back against the container’s wall and counted seconds listening for any noises.

There were none, neither from the water nor from the yard.

 _Six, seven, eight,_ come on, Cowboy!, _ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen-_

Finally, more splashing, a deep gulp of air being sucked in and some coughing. The yard remained silent. Illya crouched to the edge of the water and saw Solo kicking to stay afloat, skin ghostly pale against the dark river.

“Napoleon!”

“Take the lead… I’ll follow”, he gasped and gestured to the corner of the basin where a ladder was installed. 

Illya nodded and slowly made his way to the ladder half listening for noises from the yard, half looking out for Napoleon, who paddled through the water only using his right arm to support the jerky movements of his legs.

It felt like years until he reached the basin’s corner and Illya was convinced that their pursuer would catch up with them any moment. But luckily, it really was the first bit of luck that was granted to them that night, the security staff seemed to stay on their positions.

“Easy, Cowboy”, Illya murmured as Napoleon pulled his body from the ladder’s steps onto the concrete. He gasped, sucked in hectic breaths and shivered violently surrounded by cold air. Illya helped him getting up and they lingered a few seconds in that position, facing each other with Illya’s hands on Napoleon’s body. There was only a thin, watery trail of blood that made its way down the American’s chest. Both bullets were still lodged in his flesh.

Kuryakin slung Solo’s right arm, the good one, around his shoulders and they carefully made their way to the end of the containers.

“D’you got any plans for Christmas, P-Peril?”, Napoleon was wracked by shivers, Illya could hear how his teeth clashed.

“Is only middle of December, Christmas is in January, is still time.”

Solo let out a huff, half because of the pain, half out of fond annoyance.

“The western Christmas, I mean.” 

Now, they had reached the end of the last container and Illya stopped to turn to Napoleon.

“We have to be fast and quiet. Going to see us anyway, so I’m going to pull you with me. You have to try to keep up”, his icy blue eyes bored into Napoleon’s and the serious concern in them made Napoleon’s heart clench. The amount of sympathy they apparently held for each other was dangerous in their line of work. Personal relationships in a job, that required them to balance between life and death frequently, were too often ended by loss, grief and despair.

Napoleon actually had thought Kuryakin was professional enough to keep his distance, unlike Solo himself, but the fear in the Russian’s eyes told him otherwise.

“I’m not new to this, Peril, I’ve done stunts like this before”, Napoleon pressed out, trying to ignore the pain in his body. He had thought the biting cold would numb the burning of the gunshot wounds, but it just seemed to evolve into one great sting.

Illya looked at him like he wanted to say something else, but eventually broke eye contact.

“Going to count to three, then we run. Trees should give enough cover for me to cut the fence.”

Napoleon nodded and braced himself, tightening his grip on Illya’s shoulder.

The Russian took a deep breath.

“One. Two. Three.”

Everything was a blur. Napoleon heard the gunshots and the shouting of the guards. He could feel the bullets whizz past him, hitting the concrete. His legs didn’t obey, didn’t move as fast as he wanted them to and Illya had to drag him with him, desperately trying to keep them from falling.

The movement, Illya’s grip and his pulling sent waves of agony through Napoleon’s body. He felt sick and black dots were dancing in his vision, effectively blinding him. He just stumbled forward without really noticing where they were going.

Suddenly, the gunshots ceased, there were only distant shouts left and someone was panting obnoxiously loud. The grip on his shoulder lessened and Napoleon found himself on the ground in an instant.

“Try to stay awake, Cowboy.”

Someone slapped him and Napoleon recognized Illya’s face in the darkness.

“Mhh.”

Illya slapped him again, harder this time.

“Ow…”

“Focus, Napoleon! You asked me about Christmas. What will you do?”

There was a weird sizzling noise. 

“Christmas?”, Napoleon mumbled.

“Da. Do you have plans?”

Christmas, yes. Napoleon’s sluggish mind conjured up a picture, warmth and the smell of turkey.

“Wanted to make a turkey, like my mum always did. I asked Gaby if she wanted to come…”

The sizzling noise changed into a metallic clicking noise.

“And? Will she have turkey with you?”

Illya’s voice wasn’t at his side anymore. Napoleon blinked up and saw him working on the fence with his laser.

“She wasn’t sure yet. She said, she didn’t feel like celebrating Christmas without her family.”

“She’ll say yes, when you ask again.”

His voice was beside him once again and Napoleon felt the tight grip on his shoulder hoisting him up again. Vaguely he noticed the pulling of wires on his clothes, his shirt seemed to rip, but he couldn’t have cared less. What captured most of his attention was the numbing cold surrounding him and the way his body burned.  
Napoleon couldn’t suppress a groan when Illya tightened his grip on him. 

“I’m sorry, Cowboy. Car isn’t far anymore, then we get you to a doctor.”

“No hospital”, Napoleon squirmed under Illya’s arm and the Russian couldn’t quite prevent his chuckle. Solo’s disdain of doctors and hospitals was a known fact to the team, similar to Illya’s disgust of honey pot missions or Gaby’s loathing of anything that involved her boys being alone in the line of danger. Just like tonight.

“I don’t think you can get out of thi- Napoleon!”, the American’s knees gave out and he nearly pulled Illya to the ground with him. “Cowboy, come on.”

Without a free hand to slap him, Illya could only jostle his partner. He knew it would painfully pull at Solo’s injuries, but he did need a little help to get him to the car.

It was almost like Gaby had some sort telepathic connection to Illya, because just as he had managed to wake Solo enough for him to take at least some of his own weight, a black cab pulled around the corner and came to a screeching halt beside him.

Illya threw open the back door and got in first, pulling Napoleon after him, carefully covering his head with his hand to prevent it from a painful meeting with the car’s roof.

“What happened?”

Gaby’s voice was tight, pressed, she already shifted into first gear and drove off.

“We got surprised by security staff, shot at us, Cowboy got hit and fell into river”, Illya recounted while trying to get Napoleon out of his soaked clothes and wrapping him with his own dry jacket. The inside of the car was pleasantly warm compared to the icy air outside, but it increased the chance of Napoleon falling asleep on him which was definitely not an option as long they weren’t at the hospital.

“You wanna come to my place?”, Solo suddenly asked, voice slurred and nearly incomprehensible through the chatter of his teeth.

Illya halted for a moment, until he remembered their conversation about Christmas.

“Only if you make _Prjaniki_ ”, he patted Napoleon’s good shoulder before he leaned closer to Gaby in front of him. She turned her head in his direction while keeping her eyes glued to the street.

“You have something for first aid?”

Gaby nodded and reached with her left hand under her seat, pulling out a black box with a white cross on it. There wasn’t much useful in it, some band aids and gauze, nothing solid enough to make a bandage that applied constant pressure to the bleedings.

Illya ripped Solo’s dress shirt open, which was now more of a soft, watery red than white. The wounds were leaking steadily and now there wasn’t enough water anymore to thin the thick, deep dark blood.

As Kuryakin began to apply pressure to wounds, Napoleon began to squirm and moan underneath his hands.

“I’m sorry, Cowboy, I’m sorry”, Illya mumbled, trying to keep his hands from his shaking. There wasn’t any of the red haze in front of his eyes that would explain this reaction, but a cold fear had gripped his insides and was holding them tight. Sure, they’ve had their fair share of close calls, gun shot wounds, bruises, cuts, one time, Illya got hit by a car; hell, he had seen Solo being electrocuted, but it hadn’t been like this, Illya never had seen live leaving his partner so fast and never feared so badly for him.

But despite that, Solo was still squirming, was trying to reach one of his pockets on his slacks.

“What is it, Cowboy?”

“The… The list”, Napoleon’s fingers fumbled uselessly at some paper.

Illya let go of the wound beneath the collarbone and reached for the list. It was wet, but being protected by a plastic foil the buyer’s names were still readable.

“Can’t die for nothing, can I?”

The American sent a lopsided grin to Kuryakin, who was a loss for words. Luckily, Gaby chimed in and didn’t leave this macabre statement uncommented.

“Nobody’s dying today, we’re just around the corner of HQ.”

She made a sharp turn for the entry of the underground parking, hurriedly showed her ID to security and ordered for a medical team. 

Gaby drove through the garage with screeching tires, nearly toppling the car over at the corners and parked directly in front of the elevator, where several nurses and a doctor were already waiting with a stretcher.

Suddenly, it all went very fast. Illya barely made it out of the backseat before the nurses were all around him, tending to Napoleon, asking him question, getting him on to the stretcher and into the elevator.

Illya could just stand and watch, the stupid list crumpled in his fist, pink water still dripping from Napoleon’s jacket.

 

Illya was pacing the waiting room of the hospital floor, when Waverly finally joined them. Their boss seemed composed, but then again, he always did. Only dark shadows under his eyes, amplified by his glasses, betrayed that he, too, was at the end of a long work day.

“Miss Teller, Kuryakin”, he greeted them both with nod and clasped his hands behind his back, “It seems Mister Solo has maneuvered himself in quite a situation.”

“What does the doctor say?”, Gaby left her chair and joined Waverly at the door to the waiting room.

“He’s still in surgery. The bullet under his collarbone hasn’t damaged too much, but the second one has done some internal harm. But”, he lifted one finger to silence Illya, who opened his mouth to interject, “we have some of the best medical staff here there is, he’ll recover. Which leads me to the question of how all of this did happen.”

“Intel was faulty”, Illya growled and glared daggers at his boss, “Security surprised us and shot at us, probably trained shooters. Someone must have tricked us. And now Cowboy’s life is on the line, only because of your stupid list!”

While passing Waverly with long, angry strides, Illya pressed the soaked list to his chest.

“Maybe you should check your sources before you send agents out. That’s what a handler usually does.”

Illya bodily shoved Waverly out of the doorway and vanished upstairs, his heavy footsteps on the metal staircase resounded on the whole floor.

“He doesn’t mean it-“

“It’s alright, Gaby. Mister Kuryakin cannot blame me more, than I already blame myself”, Waverly smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s not your fault! Alexander, it was a mistake, those happen to everyone!”, Gaby usually didn’t call Waverly by his first name, but it seemed appropriate in this dire situation. 

“But they can’t happen if there are lives at stake. Those two men trusted me, before I could prove myself. Now one of them is gravely injured. Kuryakin’s doubts are only justified.”  
He took a deep breath and regained his posture, took on his frustrating Mona-Lisa-smile and was the director of UNCLE again.

“Now, Miss Teller, you should probably join Kuryakin. I prefer my HQ undestroyed. I’ll send someone to notify you when Solo comes out of surgery.”

 

Contrary to Waverly’s fears, and to Gaby’s surprise, Illya wasn’t demolishing anything. He sat quietly in the men’s locker room, where both, he and Napoleon, stored spare clothes.   
Instead of his blood-soaked turtle neck, Illya now wore a deep blue sweater, a recommendation from Napoleon when they had been in Paris a few months ago, shopping for undercover wardrobe. 

Illya had been flustered, when Napoleon had held the sweater to his chest and had commented on how nicely it complimented Illya’s eyes. Even though Kuryakin had argued that his existing wardrobe was perfectly fine, he had been easily bullied into buying the sweater.

Now, in the dark locker room, he still held Napoleon’s wet jacket in his hands. 

Gaby silently stepped up behind him and placed her hands on his tensed shoulders.

“He’ll make it”, she said eventually while kneading the hard muscles, “It wouldn’t be his style to die like this.”

Illya huffed.

“Then what would be his style? Strangled by a jealous ex-lover?”

“Mhh… Yeah, I could see something like that happen.”

For a few minutes, they remained silent, Gaby was still trying to ease the tension out of Illya’s shoulders and he stared at the jacket in his hands.

“Did he invite you for Christmas?”, Illya asked eventually.

“He did. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, you know how he likes to joke about these things. So, I declined.” Gaby felt regret creeping up on her. Maybe she should have accepted the invitation, even if that wouldn’t change anything now.

“I didn’t think he would celebrate. Cowboy doesn’t seem very religious”, Illya thought out loud. Truthfully, he hadn’t considered it until now. He and his mother stopped going to church after his father had been arrested, their Christmas celebrations weren’t worth mentioning, even though Illya’s mother had given everything to make just a little bit special for Illya. At the KGB he had stopped celebrating altogether and he hadn’t picked it up again.

“Are you?”, Illya turned to face Gaby. “Religious, I mean?”

She smiled softly, eyes far away. “We used to go to mass on the 24th, you know, for _Heiligabend_. But that was before the war. My foster parents weren’t religious, but everything concerning the church isn’t really seconded by the soviets or the SED, is it?”

Illya nodded.

“But we celebrated Christmas, with a tree and everything. On Heiligabend, we used to have _Wiener Würstchen_ and _Kartoffelsalat_ , sometimes . On the 25th, we’d have some kind of roast, goose or duck, sometimes deer. It was always my favorite time of the year.”  
Gaby got lost in her memories and subconsciously continued to knead his shoulders. It felt nice, having another person’s warmth on his body.

“We should do something for Christmas, when Cowboy comes out of hospital”, Illya decided. His mind had settled on the thought that their partner would return to their team and   
he was adamant to not let it stray to darker ideas. 

Gaby climbed over the bench and sat down beside him, embracing him sideways and resting her head on his shoulder.

“I think he’ll like that.”

 

Napoleon came out of surgery about two hours after Illya fled from the waiting room. Gaby dozed against his shoulder and he was staring out of the window at the dark blue sky, when a young agent found them, gasping about Agent Solo was being transferred to his room.

They both ran back to the hospital floor, Illya took two steps at once, Gaby hurried after him, her heels clacking loudly on the ground.

Waverly and a doctor were waiting for them at the entrance to the area for the patients. 

“How is he?”, Gaby asked breathlessly, grabbing Illya’s hand.

“Well, he’s out of the woods for now”, the doctor said, rubbing his temple. “Extracting the bullets posed some difficulty, but we managed. Nevertheless, Mister Solo’s road to recovery will be a long one.”

“What do you mean ‘for now’?”, inquired Illya, not having missed this particular detail. It set him on edge, hearing the doctor saying it, it sounded like the worst was yet to come.

“So to say, his bath in the Thames wasn’t exactly favorable in his situation. We’re currently treating him with antibiotics to prevent an infection, but in addition to that there’s the   
risk of pneumonia. We’ll monitor him closely.”

Illya felt how his hands began to shake. He balled them into tight fist, trying to fight this haze in his head, trying to stay rational. Cowboy was out of surgery, but he could still die. He could wither away pathetically, defeated by infection and pneumonia, and all because Illya hadn’t paid enough attention, had failed to save him, to defend him, to have his back like he was sup-

“Can we see him?”, Gaby’s soft voice ripped him out of his spiral. His hands stilled, as he glared at the doctor, daring him to say ‘No’.

“Uh, we’d actually like him to have as less contact to other people as possible. We can’t raise the risk of infection even higher with more bacteria and virus’ threatening his immune-“, the doctor trailed off, fearfully staring at Illya, who grinded his teeth and puffed like a bull, ready to charge at any red flag presented to him.

“Doctor, I’m sure we can find a way to minimize that risk, can we? I don’t suppose it would benefit Mister Solo’s healing process if he was locked in there all alone?”, Waverly said, his voice sweet and gentle, but his eyes were radiating an amount of authority Gaby had yet to witness directed at her. That was probably how he got the KGB and the CIA to loan their best agents to UNCLE.

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. Apparently, this wasn’t the first time he had to deal with overprotective partners and colleagues.  
“Did the two of you get a flu shot already?”

Both agents nodded.

“When was the last time you were properly examined by a physician?”

“Every agent is to maintain perfect health. To ensure that, we require monthly examinations. Agents Teller and Kuryakin underwent theirs just two weeks ago, you can check their results in their health records”, Waverly intervened.

The doctor sighed again.

“You’ll have to leave your clothes and anything else you have on your body outside. A thorough disinfection is imperative. Then, and only then, you can see your colleague.”

“I don’t think this will be a problem, doctor.”

 

Dressed in surgical clothes, equipped with medical caps and masks, they were finally allowed into Napoleon’s room at intensive care. 

Illya was the first one to enter, but stopped dead in his tracks when he first laid eyes on his partner, causing Gaby to bump into him.

Napoleon was painfully pale, white as the sheets he laid upon, the only color in his face were some strands of his raven hair curling over his forehead and the deep purplish shadows under his eyes. He seemed so small, all of his bulk had vanished underneath the blanket, had been sucked out by the tubes connected to him.

“Illya?”, Gaby asked carefully behind him. He shook his head, tried to clear his thoughts and stepped fully into the room.

Gaby wasn’t able to hide the harsh breath she sucked in, being just as startled by Napoleon’s vulnerable state.

Illya stepped up to the bed, deliberately setting one foot in front of the other, forcing himself not to turn around and flee HQ. He wasn’t good at that, seeing Napoleon so weak and open, without his usual charade, his masks, hiding the man underneath. Illya knew the real Napoleon, but seeing him completely unguarded just felt _wrong_.

He reached Napoleon’s bedside and saw how Gaby took his hand across him, brushing the curls out of his face and mumbling little reassurances. Illya pressed himself to do the same and covered Napoleon’s slightly smaller hand with his. It was cold.

His eyes flitted back to his partner’s face, on of his hands flew up and softly cradled Solo’s cheek, it was cold too.

“Of course he will get pneumonia with temperature like this”, Illya growled and searched for the radiator to turn it up. 

Returning to the bed, he noticed the shattered expression in Gaby’s eyes.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing, I just… ähh… “, she adjusted the mask that covered most of her face. “Do you really think he can get through this? It’s just, he looks so…”, she whispered eventually and gestured helplessly to the motionless body.

“He will. Cowboy’s stronger than this, he’ll walk out of here in no time”, Illya assured her, taking the hand, which didn’t hold Solo’s fingers and squeezed it. “He has to.”

 

When Napoleon came to being at least somewhat coherent, the first thing he noticed was the heat. It was so hot, it even drowned out the pain from his wounds. Well, that could have been the drugs too.

He shifted uncomfortably even before opening his eyes and tried to get rid of the blanket.

“Cowboy?”

Illya sounded breathless, as if he just resurfaced after a two-minute-dive.

“Good God, Peril, if I’m sweating like this, you have to have melted into a puddle by now”, Napoleon rasped and finally opened his eyes to meet a sight, that looked very much not like his Peril.

This was huge and looked like a mad scientist being about to prod his butthole in a very uncomfortable manner.

Only the icy blue eyes gave away the man’s identity. Now, that they caught Napoleon’s, they started to melt.

“Cowboy…”; Illya sighed and sagged back into his tiny little plastic chair, which creaked ominously under his weight.

“You seem very happy to see me”, Napoleon said, trying to sound cocky, but the rasp in his voice ruined the act. The effort to clear his throat was met with a burning sensation.

“Don’t let it get over your head.”

Ah, there he was, his beloved Peril, all grumbly and no fun. Illya leaned forward and pressed a straw against Napoleon’s lips, gratefully he took a few sips of lukewarm water.

“So, what did I miss?”, Napoleon asked settling more comfortably into his pillows, “Where is Gaby? I didn’t miss Christmas, did I?”

Only the two longest days of my life, Illya thought. But he answered differently.

“She is in break room, getting some sleep. And no, you didn’t miss Christmas. Is only the 18th.”

“Huh… Well, it looks like I’m going to need some help making your _Prjaniki_.”

Illya’s eyes shot up from where he intently studied the seam of his robe.

“You-You remember?”

“You mean, do I remember your acceptance of my invitation? Yes, I do, Peril”, Napoleon grinned up at him and Illya already wanted to punch him. And he’d been awake for only a few minutes.

 

When Gaby and the doctor came to check on Napoleon, he was close to falling asleep again. The doctor hurried to explain everything to him and took notice not to forget or whitewash anything, leaving Solo visibly deflated.

“But, hypothetically speaking”, Illya noted the amount it cost Solo not to slur his words, “I could be out of here on Christmas, right?”

The doctor grimaced and sighed. He seemed to do that fairly often.

“If there are no complications, this could be the case, yes. But, Mister Solo, don’t get your hopes too high, New Year’s Eve might be a more possible option for your discharge.   
Now, you should rest. The more rest, the faster you’re out of here.”

He nodded to Gaby and Illya before leaving.

Then, Gaby turned to Napoleon, who was visibly struggling to stay awake.

“The doctor’s right, Napoleon. The only thing helping you right now is sleep. So, stop fighting it”, she smiled and softly caressed the side of his face.

“We’ll be here, when you wake up, Cowboy”, Illya mumbled and the American lost his battle, slipping into deep, drug induced slumber.

 

Two days later, Waverly found Gaby in the break room, picking apart a tangerine, the fruity smell flooded the area and it almost seemed like an ordinary day in December.

“They’re much sweeter here”, Gaby noted as Waverly sat down beside her, “We had them too, but they were sour and dry and though.” 

She offered him a piece and Waverly took it, chewing slowly and savoring the sweetness that washed away the lingering burn of the whiskey he had earlier in his office.

“So, how is Mister Solo?”

“He’s got a fever and a cough, it’s not pneumonia yet, but the doctor’s pretty sure it will develop into one. He’s not responding to the antibiotics like he was supposed to”, Gaby’s voice was tight, compressed, she stated the facts like she had nothing to do with the whole ordeal.

“I would have looked into his file if I wanted to know about his medical status. How is Napoleon holding up, Gaby?”

She looked at him briefly and scoffed.   
“How do you think he’s holding up, confined to a tiny hospital room, coughing his lungs out and ripping his stitches every time he does so, not being allowed to have any guests but us, wrapped up in plastic? Alexander, tell me, how do you think he’s holding up?!”

Waverly sighed and intertwined his fingers. “I thought as much”, he murmured.

The room was completely silent for a minute or two, except for the soft noises ripping apart the peel of yet another tangerine made.

“He seems to have given up. He’s just… not fighting. I don’t understand it”, Gaby eventually whispered, barely audible.

“Maybe he doesn’t have anything he thinks is worth fighting for”, Waverly suggested. 

“But he has us”, Gaby protested fervently, “He has his job here, he’s been happy these last months working with us. How is that not worth it?”

“Maybe he doesn’t see it. You know, going on mission after mission and seemingly not getting any closer to his goals, to not really see the outcomes of their work, not having a bigger thing to live for, it can be very tiring.” He spoke from experience, but this was a story for another day. “Maybe you should show him. Often you fail to notice what’s right in front of you.”

Gaby nodded, deep in thoughts. She didn’t notice how Waverly left.

 

Carefully Illya wrung out the wet cloth and placed it back on Napoleon’s forehead. He twitched in his sleep, muttered a few incomprehensible words and calmed down again. His complexion was waxy, almost greyish and Illya couldn’t stop the tremor in his hand seeing Napoleon like this, seeing how he desperately wrestled with death and seemed to lose.

The door was opened, and Gaby stepped inside the room, her curls carefully hidden underneath the hideous cap. He expected her to take her usual place at Napoleon’s other side, but instead she came up behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and beginning to knead them like she had done in the locker room four days ago.

“You should get some rest. And something to eat.”

“I’m fine.”

“Illya.” 

It was just his name, only one word, but it made him turn around and face her. She brought up one of her hands to cup his cheek.

“You need to take care of yourself. How’s Napoleon supposed to heal and to look after himself when he worries about you?”, she asked.

“No need to worry about me”, Illya answered gruffly. Gaby was being irrational, Napoleon now needed their full attention.

“Oh, you know him. He would probably try to make you a soup while laying in his bed if he knew that the last thing you ate was an apple 5 hours ago”, her voice was quiet and soft, to not disturb Napoleon, but there was a stern undertone to it.

“But-“

“Illya.” She threateningly raised her eyebrows at him. Even though he would never admit it out loud, Gaby did have him wrapped around her little finger.

Illya sighed and slowly got up from the chair, letting his joints pop. Gaby smiled, he could see it on the faint crinkles around her eyes.

“Eat something. Get some sleep. I’ll promise you, we’ll still be here when you come back.”

He looked at her for a moment, probably thinking about the reliability of her promise but surrendered, gave Napoleon’s hand a soft squeeze and left his partners alone in the hospital room.

“You do have him on a really tight leash, don’t you?”

Gaby’s eyes shot to Napoleon, who was blinking up to her, eyes glassy but focused, and smiled his devilish little smile.

“You could have helped me, you know.”

He chuckled.

“Nah. Didn’t want to spoil the fun you were having.”

Gaby sighed, but couldn’t hide her smile. She took Illya’s vacated spot and freed Napoleon of the cloth, carefully wiping the drops of sweat off his temple. Then, she buried her   
hand in his soft hair and let her nails run over his scalp. Napoleon leaned into the touch like a cat, even though it didn’t feel right with the glove covering Gaby’s hand.

“Why are you so desperate about Christmas?”, she asked after a while.

Napoleon cracked one eye open. “Desperate?”

Gaby furrowed her brows, remembering the absolutely defeated look on Napoleon’s face, when the doctor had confirmed he definitely would not be home on Christmas.

“I just… I just had plans, you know? I hate it when they change.”

Gaby remained silent, not buying any of the bullshit Napoleon was trying to sell her. He seemed to notice that and turned onto his side, exhaling loudly and dragging a hand over his face.

“I thought this Christmas was going to be different. I wanted to make it special, something to remember for all of us. I haven’t really celebrated it since the war, always spent it alone, but now, with you…”, he trailed off and stared up to the ceiling.

“Oh, Napoleon”, Gaby sighed and was met with a too open, too vulnerable expression. Gaby knew the drugs had a good part in this confession, Napoleon would never admit that he was disappointed, even sad, because of Christmas. Her heart ached as she noticed that he fought tears.

“We’ll be here with you, you don’t have to be alone anymore”, she whispered hoarsely and almost climbed on the bed to carefully hug him.

He laughed, flustered, but melted into her embrace. “It’ll be just another day at the office.”

“It won’t”, Gaby promised, “We’ll all be together, it will be special.”

They stayed like that for some time and Gaby disentangled herself from him when she thought he fell asleep again, but Napoleon watched her intently when she settled into the chair at his side.

“Tell me how you celebrated Christmas when you were a kid”, she asked him and started to listen to a wonderful, heartwarming story about a little family in New York, about a mother who cooked so much, they invited the orphaned young man living upstairs, about a father who worked overtimes to provide his kids some presents, about a little sister who was overjoyed by the little tokens Napoleon gave her. She helped him sit up, when he was wrecked by a coughing fit, gasping and shivering, clutching his chest, fed him ice chips when he calmed down and tucked him in when his eyes started to slip shut and his words came slower and slower until they changed into a soft sigh and deep breaths.

 

The 24th of December had them sitting together in Napoleon’s room. He was asleep, but thrashed and moaned, probably haunted by fever induced nightmares. His condition hadn’t improved, the temperature remained too high and the antibiotics didn’t seem to help at all. Gaby had resorted to home remedies, like _Wadenwickel_ and practically drowned Napoleon with lime blossom tea. 

Illya did his best to help, but he could feel the despair creeping up on him and had to concentrate all his will on not losing it. He carefully brushed some damp strands of hair out of Napoleon’s face and mopped up the drops of sweat trickling down his forehead. He wasn’t only pale anymore, there was a greyish tinge to his skin and Illya couldn’t recall a phase in his life where he had been more afraid. Maybe when his father had been sent off to Siberia, but he had been a little boy then, not understanding the consequences of everything that happened. 

He knew he was close to losing his partner. He didn’t know what he would do then. Illya doubted he would be able to continue his work for UNCLE. It was a mistake, getting close to another agent like that, he shouldn’t have allowed himself to break one of his most important rules. But Gaby had bulldozed her way into his heart and Napoleon had slipped in after her, willingly or not. He should have fought against it.

A low moan dragged him back to reality. Napoleon was tensed, he pressed himself back into his pillows and clawed at the blanket.

“Don’t… Don’t, please don’t shoot him.”

It was barely audible, with his throat raw from the coughing fits and with the heavy, rattling breaths, but Illya and Gaby shared a shocked look.

“Napoleon, shh, calm down”, Gaby leaned forward and laid her hand on his shoulder, a reassuring touch. “You’re safe, we’re here.”

Napoleon’s eyes shot open, pupils blown wide and his face a mask of horror.

“No, go away!”

He pressed himself up in a sitting position and against his bed’s headrest.

“Napoleon, it’s just me, Gaby”, she moved her hand to his chest, but he scrambled, tried to get further away.

“Leave me alone!”

“Napoleon-“

He pushed her away, not strong enough to do any harm, but Gaby didn’t expect any of it and fell off the bed. Napoleon tried to flee and hopped off the bed as well, but his legs were trembling and wouldn’t hold him, so he plummeted to the ground. His knees met the hard, cold tiles and Illya was up in an instant, rounding the bed to get to him, but as Napoleon saw the tall figure approaching him, disguised with cap, mask and cape, his fear only grew, and he desperately tried to crawl away.

Illya slung his arms around Napoleon and pressed his partner’s back against his chest. He tried to fight him, clawed weakly at the arms embracing him but he didn’t stand a chance, the Russian just strengthened his hold and rested his head on Napoleon’s shoulder, his mouth against his ear. He started humming, a random melody he made up as he went and rocked the shaking body of his partner softly.

After some time, Napoleon’s feeble attempts to free himself turned into a faint, but assured grip around his wrist. 

“Cowboy?”

Illya let go of Napoleon to look at him properly. The American gave him a small grin, eyes half lidded but more focused than they had been for days. 

He opened his mouth to say something, but before he was able to do so, his eyes rolled back into his skull and his body went limp.

 

They met with the doctors, now a whole team of them, roughly two hours after that. Napoleon had yet to regain consciousness.

They all wore a mask of professional neutrality, not a single muscle betrayed what they really felt or thought.

But they couldn’t fool Waverly, Illya or Gaby. Waverly and Illya because they were in the spy business for far too long to fall for such tricks, and Gaby because she could smell bullshit a hundred kilometers against the wind.

“Did you think about my idea?”, she asked in a sharp, unforgiving tone.

She had tried to convince the doctor to let her decorate Napoleon’s room and give him some presents on the 25th to lift his spirits and so to improve his condition. The doctor had vehemently declined, asking if she voluntarily would like to endanger her partner’s health even more.

Finally, the doctor’s face showed something, a grimace, which didn’t seem to announce good news.

“Well, it isn’t too bad after all.”

“What do you mean?”, her eyes were narrowed to slits and she took a threatening step in the doctor’s direction. He appeared to be unfaced by her anger.

“We should make this Christmas as comfortable as possible for him.”

Gaping, Gaby stumbled back and met Illya’s solid chest. His hands gripped her arms, she felt the little tremors shaking them.

“I suppose, you think Mr. Solo won’t recover”, Waverly concluded, mirroring the impassive masks of the medical staff.

“I’m afraid so. I’m very sorry, but there isn’t anything else we can do than to arrange everything to his pleasing.”

“But… How-How could this happen? He was awake just a few hours ago!”, Gaby wanted to surge forward but Illya held her close.

“We weren’t able to fight the infection of his inner wounds. This in combination with the pneumonia seems to have lead to a sepsis. There are some things we can do to fight against it, but he’s already very weak and couldn’t fight the infection to begin with-“

“So, you just let him die?!”, Illya growled. His grip on Gaby’s arms tightened, he almost hurt her. “You just give up on him?!”

“Mr. Kuryakin, we did and will continue to do everything in our power to help Mr. Solo recover, but in his state, there aren’t many possibilities to actually do so!”

In the past few days the doctor had learned that the Russian agent had a tendency to volatility but would refrain from causing physical harm. But as Illya let go of Gaby and went up to him, invading his personal space, he began to doubt his conclusion.

“You”, Illya stabbed his finger into the doctor’s chest, “will do everything and anything to make him better. You will try _everything_ or you will be the one responsible for his death.”

He hovered over the physician for another few seconds, then turned and stormed out of the hospital wing.

The doctor looked helplessly at Waverly.

“I think Mr. Kuryakin has made himself quite clear.”

The Brit nodded and also left the floor, leaving Gaby with a group of frightened lab coats.

 

This time, Illya wasn’t too merciful with the interior design of one of the break rooms a few floors above the hospital wing. When Gaby finally found him, he stood in the ruins of a dresser, a coffee table and a bunk bed, all torn to shreds. She shortly wondered how he did it but decided she would be better off without knowing it.

Illya was still trembling, visibly so. He was kneeling amidst the debris, shoulders shaking.

“Illya”, she didn’t touch him, not yet, when she didn’t know exactly if he had calmed down.

“Gaby”, he drew a hitching breath, voice thick and hoarse. “How could this happen? How could I let this happen?”

He looked at her, eyes intensely blue and shining with unshed tears. 

“Oh, Illya”, Gaby drew him into a hug and rested her head on top of his, tried to hide him from the world with her small body. Illya buried his face in her shoulder and a sob escaped him. “It isn’t your fault.”

“I should have protected him.”

“But, Illya, you did. If it hadn’t been for you, Napoleon wouldn’t have gotten out of Rome. You always did what you could. And Napoleon always knew about the risks.”

When Waverly had noticed how close the three of them grew, he had pulled Gaby aside, had warned her about getting too attached to her partners, had urged her to think about the risks.

But she hadn’t had any of it. Even then, her boys had meant far too much to her.

After some minutes, Illya began to pull away from her. His eyes were red and swollen, tracks of tears clearly visible on his flushed cheeks. Gaby combed his messy hair with her fingers and felt how her throat closed up. 

She wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not when her boys needed her to be strong.

 

Napoleon’s chest made an ugly rattling noise every time he drew a breath, but beside that the room was quiet. He didn’t dream, laid there completely motionless save for his breathing, like he had already left this earth. There were more machines in the room now. Not all were connected to the American’s body, but if his health further reclined, they would be soon.

It made Illya sick to see his partner like that. So, he just sat there, beside the bed, with one of Napoleon’s hands between his, looking down to the ground and he prayed.  
He wasn’t religious, far from it, the horrors he had seen made him believe in hell, maybe in the devil, but not in a god or heaven. But now he tried to believe, Illya tried to believe that there was somebody who watched over them, someone who would save Napoleon and himself.

Gaby sat across him, legs and arms crossed, staring at the sick man as if she could awake him with the force of her will. They wouldn’t, couldn’t end like this. It couldn’t be the last thing she’d ever see of Napoleon, pale, motionless, wheezing, only a shadow of his former self. It just wasn’t his style.

It was near midnight, the wind had picked up and howled outside the window, the bustling outside Napoleon’s room had died down to the movements of the nurse and the doctor on night shift.

The HQ was nearly completely empty, only two agents were on call, sleeping in the undestroyed break rooms, in case something should happen. Even Waverly had left his office, after Gaby prodded him to do so. Everyone had somewhere else to be, except for the girl from East Berlin and the Russian super-agent. But those two were exactly where they were needed.

A knock on the door startled both of them out of their thoughts. The night nurse was outside and gestured for them to join her. 

“There is somebody waiting for you”, she said, nodding to the hall, where a small figure was standing. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Outside, Mary, Waverly’s secretary was expecting them. She was dressed in a thick grey coat, a blue hat covered her head and her blonde curls framed her face. Her cheeks were red, she just came inside.

“Gaby, Agent Kuryakin”, she greeted them with a brilliant smile.

“Mary”, Gaby was able to put on half a smile, whereas Illya remained grim.

“I was just on my way to the mass at St. Paul’s, but Mister Waverly asked me to bring you this.”

At her feet was a huge bag, Gaby couldn’t see what was inside of it, silver tissue covered its contents.

“What is this?”, Illya asked gruffly.

“I don’t know, but he said it might help Mr. Solo.”

She looked at the watch around her delicate wrist.

“I have to go now, or I’ll be late for the mass. Merry Christmas, you two. And please tell Mr. Solo we all miss him dearly.”

She waved them goodbye and turned around, leaving for the stairs with a bounce in her step as if everything was rainbows and butterflies.

Gaby and Illya shared an incredulous look and Illya took a careful step towards the bag. The tissue crackled a little when he pulled it away. 

“Those are decorations. With balls a-and candy and all of it”, his face seemed like he questioned his own sanity, or, perhaps, Waverly’s. “What are we supposed to do with that? It can’t be in hospital room.”

Gaby came up beside him and inspected the bag’s contents. 

“Those are stockings and a little Christmas Tree… but it’s not a real fir”, she felt the dark green material between thumb and index finger, it lacked only the characteristic smell of a Christmas tree. “It’s plastic.”

“Plastic?”

“Illya, we can sterilize that! It won’t be a bigger issue for his health, than our presence is anyways!! We can give him the Christmas he wished for!!”

 

The room was now festive, with a sparkling garland seemingly out of fir, Gaby had hung the stockings under the windowsill in absence of a fireplace and filled them with candy canes and chocolate. The doctor had scoffed when they had carried everything inside, but the nurse had helped them.

But now, everything was back to waiting and praying, everything was the same as before save for the decorations. 

Gaby had nodded off in her chair around six in the morning, but Illya stubbornly stayed awake, holding Napoleon’s hand in his, pressing his lips to them and whispered silent prayers. His eyes were burning, he wasn’t sure if he was just tired or if there were tears of sadness.

Illya couldn’t remember the last time he felt like this, so helpless, so desperate. His stomach felt like a hole, he was afraid to be sick, and there was something that had a painfully   
tight grip around his heart.

He also couldn’t remember the last time a death had hit him like this. He had accepted as a must long ago. They all would die someday. And if it happened sooner, because of the hand of a KGB agent, it was still the same. 

But this, losing Napoleon, Illya couldn’t understand it. Napoleon couldn’t just die. It was unreal and impossible and not anything Illya had ever thought of.

At the KGB they had learned not to ponder about the future. They couldn’t plan it, they never knew if they would come home from a mission. 

But now, with UNCLE, with Gaby and Napoleon, Illya had dared to hope. To hope that there would be an _after_. He had still believed he would die in the field, like it was his destiny, or duty to Russia, or whatever, but Gaby and Napoleon would still have each other, and they would continue their work and they would be okay. He never dreamed of Napoleon dying before him. Of course, it was stupid, anything could happen in their line of work, but Illya had been sure that he would be there to save Napoleon if anything should happen.

But he couldn’t. There was nothing he could do, and Napoleon was dying and would leave them alone and everything would fall apart and-

“Am I dead?”

Illya’s eyes surged upwards to Napoleon’s face, but his eyes were closed, his expression lax. 

“Cowboy?”, Illya whispered. If he was losing his mind, he didn’t want Gaby to know just yet.

“You’re holding my hand, Peril, so this can only be heaven. But I’m quite sure, I’ve got a reservation for hell.”

“Napoleon?”, now the American cracked his eyes open. 

“And now you’re calling me Napoleon, maybe I am already in Hell.”

Illya took a deep breath and it felt like he did so for the first time in days. His chest was suddenly so much lighter, and, lord, he let the tears run down his cheeks and didn’t care if   
Napoleon saw them or not.

“Peril?”, the cocky and suave tone in Napoleon’s voice vanished and was replaced by worry. “Are you alright?”

“You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy.” Illya smiled and softly cupped Napoleon’s face. “I’m alright when you’re alright.”

The American’s cheeks painted a soft pink, not that he would ever admit it, and his heart fluttered strangely.

“I definitely am. Especially since my room looks like a Christmas wonderland. Your idea?”

Illya shook his head. “Gaby’s. Waverly bought it.”

“And yet, you’re the only one I want to kiss.”

Napoleon could see how Illya’s ears went red even underneath all the covering.

“I don’t think this would be good idea”, he said, flustered, “too much bacteria. When you’re better.”

“Well, Peril, I will remind you of that.”

**Author's Note:**

> This took quite some time to write, which is why I'm a little late to the Christmas party.
> 
> Some personal trivia:  
> \- I'm not familiar with the russian christmas, so I looked it up (Please excuse possible mistakes)
> 
> \- However, I am from eastern germany, the former GDR, my parents and my grandparents grew up here, so the traditions to which Gaby refers, are practised in my family. We went to the mass on Heiligabend (24th of December), but it wasn't a religious thing, we kids just had a part in the Krippenspiel (we reenacted the story of how jesus was born). On the 24th we always had sausage (Wiener Würstchen), Kartoffelsalat (potato salad) and Heringssalat (it's basically potato salad but with herring). On the 25th there is a roast. Not every family does it like this, but it's pretty common. My father's family used to eat grilled sausage and sauerkraut in christmas eve. Please don't question this, we're just weird. And the SED was the unity party of the GED
> 
> \- I don't know too much about medicine, antibiotics and gsws, everything I do know is from the internet, so please excuse mistakes.
> 
> \- I also don't know if there were plastic garlands and stuff in the sixties. Probably not. Please accept it anyway for the sake of the story.
> 
> Anyway, I really hope you liked it and had a nice christmas, if you celebrated.  
> Kudos are appreciated. Scream at me on tumblr. (@shine-and-rise-sammy)


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